


Work of Fiction

by sksNinja



Series: Work of Fiction [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Author McCree, Drinking, Elevators, Fluff, Genji Shimada is a Little Shit, I'm not sure what speed of burn this is but something's probably on fire, M/M, NaNoWriMo 2017, Romance Novel Conventions, hand holding, mostly snarky fluff, romance novels, running from your feelings, talking about feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-05
Updated: 2017-12-01
Packaged: 2019-01-29 22:05:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 12,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12640116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sksNinja/pseuds/sksNinja
Summary: Hanzo Shimada is a reputable Japanese historian and a well known antique appraiser.He lives in finely decorated a single unit apartment.He keeps tabs on his unruly younger brother, and attempts to keep him in line.Hanzo is a functioning and contributing member of society.His weakness for Romance Novels is irrelevant.





	1. Hanzo

_‘As the dark smoke rose from the silver gun’s gleaming barrel Annabell Lee swiftly realized-’_

“No.”

_‘The legend of the mirage oasis was just that, a legend.  Until our young but fearless hero-’_

_“_ Tacky _._ ”

_‘When the shadowy light of the mid-day sunset cast its shadow on-’_

“That doesn’t even make sense."

Closing his laptop, Hanzo leaned back in his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose. Some break this was, nothing new looked even remotely promising. Didn’t anyone know how to write a good novel these days?

 _Good Look Books_ was a reputable website, specialized in reviews and book ratings. It was a gathering space for subscribed users to compare opinions and make suggestions to one another. Their forums were surprisingly well organized and decently moderated.  

The site was also the only place Hanzo was comfortable admitting to his biggest secret, his love of romance novels.

He had been searching through his new recommendations list for what seemed like hours. Yet even when cross-referencing other sites for summaries, nothing caught his eye. Even the westerns (a guilty favorite) seemed bland.

With a sigh, Hanzo reopened the page and tabbed through to private messaging. Ah, good, one of his more reliable correspondents was online.

Dragonometry:

_Please, please tell me you have some new novel recommendations._

Antartiqueen:

_Haha that bad huh?_

Dragonometry:

_If I have to read one more shitty heterosexual synopsis I will shoot myself in the foot._

Anartiqueen:

_well... “Waiting for Winter,” did come out last week_

Dragonometry:

_Queen… you know I respect your opinions and appreciate your feedback but, as I’m sure you’re aware, “snowed in lesbians” is not the same-sex pairing I’m looking for.  
_

Antartiqueen:

_I'm sorry, but I really think you’d like Alexsandra’s writing style if you’d just give her a chance!_

Dragonometry:

_Yes and your massive crush on the author has nothing to do with it._

Antartiqueen:

_like you’re any better Mr. I-own-every-J.J.M.-novel-in-existence!_

Hanzo paused with his hands over the keys. That was different. Jesse James Morricone novels were a category in and of themselves. “6 Shots at Sunset,” was groundbreaking. “Escape from Deadlock Gorge,” changed the playing field of gay romance. Even his first novel “Caught in the Cactus Flower,” was…not bad for a first attempt. Alright, maybe Antartiqueen did have a point.

Still, it was _not_ a crush. For one, he didn’t even know what they looked like. They never showed their picture in their novels. “Jesse,” was a decently gender neutral name and, many romance authors used a pen name to help separate their identity from their other publications, or even in general. Rumors supposedly confirmed J.J.M was male, but Hanzo wondered how much of that was wishful thinking on his part. So no. No crushing whatsoever.

Hanzo shook his head and closed the conversation with a huff. His lack of retort notwithstanding. His break was over, he had work to do after all.

* * *

 

It had been a number of years since Hanzo had begun his work as a licenced antique appraiser. His specialization being in Asian artistry. Previous connections with his family aside, it had only taken a few years to gather all of the necessary qualifications and documentations required to legally appraise paintings, vases, and various other oddities such as the occasional heirloom katana.

It was a dream job in a number of ways. It thankfully paid well. For while Hanzo deeply cared for his brother, having grown up with Genji, being able to afford your own apartment was mandatory in his opinion. In addition, most of his work could be completed online. Hanzo worked with several organizational websites to gather clients seeking appraisals.  All he really need to do was check his email accounts, look through item descriptions and pictures, and cast his judgment. It was sometimes tedious work, but the occasional challenging piece kept things from becoming too dull.  
  
He didn’t have to physically talk to anyone unless he wanted to. And while he sporadically did have to attend antique conventions in person, there was nothing quite like looking some rich smug bastard in the eye, and explaining to them that the “priceless kimono” they picked up on their trip to Japan was hardly worth the rayon it was printed on.

Yes, Hanzo thought, it had been some time since he had flexed that particular talent. Looking forward though his calendar, he realized one such appraisal event was taking place in just a few weeks. With a slight smile, he found himself looking forward to it .

* * *

 

That is to say he _had_ been looking forward to it, at least until he got there.

Hanzo didn’t know whose idea it was to host his work event in the same building at the same time as “Passion Con,” but Hanzo felt they should be dragged into the street and shot … perhaps more than once. Between hallway swarms of boisterous wine-moms with sharp elbows, to shy teens begging for pictures of him in his suit with his hair down, his patience was more than worn thin.

Hanzo didn’t even know they _had_ romance novel conventions. It’s not as if he would have been caught dead attending one anyways but… well, that was possibly the worst part of it all. That despite the rude congoers, despite the fact his hard won reputation would be ruined if one of his associates or contacts caught him… he really wanted to go.

As it was, the closest he could get himself to attending was lurking in the hallways, and eavesdropping on others in the convention center’s restaurant/bar.  

Hanzo knew that he could have gone elsewhere to relax. Taken a taxi downtown.  Treated himself to a nice traditional dinner. Had he really been so inclined, he could have stayed in, ordered room service, and re-read J.J.M.’s latest paperback, “The Broken Noose.”

Instead he found himself sitting at a corner of the bar drinking Kirin Lager and picking at an order of pub fries. He pretended he was only there because the bar was attached to his hotel.

His spot in the bar was well chosen. Sitting at the short side of the “L” shaped bar, he was positioned by the aisle between groups of tables and booths. It would allow for a quick getaway if need be. It was as good a spot as could be expected considering the busyness of the establishment at this time in the evening.

Perhaps he had gotten used to the strange outfits he’d seen throughout the day. Or he might have been too busy listening in on polka-dot-scarf’s rant on the importance of safe sex practices in fiction, but Hanzo didn’t properly notice the cowboy until he sat next to him and ordered a whiskey sour.

“Cowboy” might have been an unfair description. It wasn’t as though the man was wearing chaps. His crimson button-up and jeans were normal enough, but what else would you call a man wearing a hat like _that_. The Stetson had bullets decorating the band, with an odd shaped badge in the center. A glance to the floor told him the man was wearing matching boots as well.  

Hanzo had been trying to determine whether the man was casually dressed up for the convention, or if he regularly wore southwestern attire, when Hanzo realized he’d been caught staring.

Turning toward Hanzo’s gaze, the taller man simply gave a smile and a tip of his hat, “Well Howdy friend. Nice to see another man ‘round here.”

Hanzo gave a soft scoff at the man’s tone of voice as he glanced around the room. He gestured to a table a little ways away where a few husbands were begrudgingly supporting their wives. “Oh?  And what about them?” he asked.

The stranger waved the comment away, “Aw naw, they don’t count. They don’t even want to be here. You can just tell.” He held out his hand, “The name's McCree.”

The man seemed nice enough. Ridiculous, but in a charming sort of way. He returned the handshake, “You may call me Hanzo.”

“Hanzo,” he tested the name on his tongue. “Well alright then Hanzo, what brings you ‘round here?” He gave a slow smile. “Business or pleasure?”

Hanzo barked a short laugh, “Business, if you must know.” He turned back toward the bar. “And please, if you are going to be so unsophisticated, at least buy me a drink.”

McCree raised a hand in defense, “Hey now, can’t blame a man for trying. You a vendor for the convention then?”

Hanzo shook his head, “No, I am one of the antique appraisers for the event on the far side of the convention center.” He huffed a short laugh, “You can imagine my surprise when arrived.”

A spark of, disappointment? Embarrassment? Crossed McCree’s expression before his warm smiled returned, and he replied. “Well you seem to be holding up just fine.”

A lull in the conversation occurred while both men nursed their respective drinks. As Hanzo finished his lager, he debated on whether or not to close his tab. The night was still young, but it wouldn’t do to drink too much with more of the event the next day.

McCree ended up making the decision for him. “So you want another one of those beers, or wouldja like something with a little more bite?”

Hanzo mildly raised his brows, “You do not have to do that.  I was-"  
  
“Teasing?” McCree guessed. “All flirting aside, yer an interesting one to talk to. I’d hate to see you go quite so soon.”

Hanzo took a moment to deliberate. In a way he had been flirting with the man, and McCree hardly seemed opposed to it. If he was honest with himself, he didn’t mind it either. He gave a slight tilt to his head. 

“Suntory whiskey if they have it.” Hanzo gave a wicked edge to his smirk, “Though I suppose I could handle something American if they don’t.”

McCree smiled with a stunned sort of awe. He gave a slow shake of his head, “Hell darlin’, I ought to write that one down.”  

As McCree flagged the bartender for a pair of whiskeys, Hanzo considered what brought McCree here in the first place. The novel convention obviously, he was able to infer that much from their conversation.  He briefly entertained the idea of McCree being a writer, but swiftly dismissed that as fantasy.  No, he seemed much more the congoer type.

McCree passed Hanzo his glass, “Sorry hun, they didn’t have anything Japanese aside from some cheap sake. Got you some Single Barrel Jack instead. A good sipping whiskey.”

It had plenty of bite, but had a smoother finish than Hanzo was expecting. It was… fitting.

The evening progressed pleasantly. The pair was halfway through their third round when talk turned to Hanzo’s occupation.

“So you’re pretty good at it?” McCree asked. “Finding fakes I mean. That how you built your reputation?”

“Ha!” Hanzo gave a proud sneer. “You will not find anyone better. It is what I was born to do.”

“What? Find fakes?”

“Hardly,” Hanzo’s expression turned bitter. “I was born to create them.”

Hanzo regretted the words immediately. He bit his tongue, and tightened the grip on his drink. He had been apart from the family for more than a decade. Forgeries were no longer a part of his life. He had lost much to that world, had nearly lost everything. Bringing to light such a dark topic was ill-mannered and dangerous. A few of his paintings were still lurking on the market. If word got back to the association of his … participation in such works, more than his license could be at stake.

Hanzo chanced a look at McCree, but found himself confused at the other man’s expression.

McCree looked at Hanzo like a beam of sunlight streaming through a window. The open-mouthed wonderment lasted a few moments more before McCree rapidly blinked and dug through his pockets, pulling out a small crumpled notebook with a pen in the spiral.

“Fuck it,” McCree said, scrambling lines onto the first blank page he found. “That is just too good not to write down.” He looked back up to Hanzo. “What was it you said earlier? Something ‘bout…”

McCree trailed off as he noticed a small group of girls approaching them. Hanzo doubted they were even old enough to be in the bar this late at night. They were mildly shoving at each other and muttering amongst themselves. One of them had their phone out.

‘Great’, Hanzo thought, ‘just what he needed right now, more pictures.’ He finished the last of his drink and turned to face the group dryly.

The tallest one glanced shyly at Hanzo as she tucked her hair behind her ear.  She took a deep breath and turned instead to McCree.

“Mr. Morricone? Could we take a picture with you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been working on this idea for a LONG time. I mostly write one-shots so this is a fun change for me. The story's outline has been done for months but you know how these things go. NaNoWriMo is as good an excuse as any to actually get it out there.
> 
> Looking forward to the feedback on this one, let me know what you think.
> 
> Edit: Holy shit you're reactions have all been wonderful! Bless all ya'll.


	2. McCree

McCree waved and gave a nervous smile as the girls walked away, a sense of embarrassment running rampant. As nice as it was to see he actually had some fans, he was worried at the impression it might have given Hanzo.  

The man hadn’t said a word since the girls had appeared, and he looked stiff as a board. Was he angry? Jealous? McCree’s publisher had finagled his attendance at the con as a guest this year, but he wasn’t very well known. Only a few others had asked for pictures or an autograph so far. He was happy for the attention, but could it have come at a worse time?

McCree took off his hat and rubbed the back of his head sheepishly. “Aaa, ha. Sorry about that darlin’. Guess I have some fans here after all.”

Hanzo’s eyebrows snapped up before his expression morphed to one of confusion. “They… they called you Morricone.”  He said slowly.

“Oh that.” McCree looked back at his drink guiltily. “Ya’ see I’m uhh,” he fiddled with the brim of his hat before returning it to his head. “A bit of a historical fiction author.” He finished lamely.

“You-” Hanzo breathed in, then out, through his nose. “Yes,” he deadpanned. “A ‘ _historical fiction_ ’ author.” He gave a meaningful pause, “At a romance novel convention.”

“Phwa- well I-” McCree sputtered and Hanzo’s face steadily shifted to one of smug amusement. As nice as that was he really needed to change the subject.

“Hey! So! I got a fun fact!” McCree interrupted himself. “You wanna know why they call drinks a ‘shot’? Bullet cartridges used to cost ‘bout the same amount a small glass a whiskey. You could literally throw down a couple of shells to buy a drink!” McCree struggled to manage eye contact for more than a couple of seconds.

Hanzo blinked, then snorted indelicately, but he seemed to take the distraction for what it was. “Hm yes,” Hanzo tilted his head in thought. He turned to get the bartender’s attention. “Shots are a good idea.”

* * *

 

McCree could hardly believe his luck. Not only had this attractive stranger returned, no _reciprocated_ his less-than-smooth flirting, but he was currently leaving the bar with his arm wrapped around the other man’s shoulders, on their way to his hotel room. TO HIS HOTEL ROOM. Holy hell, how’s that for a romantic cliche?

McCree looked over at Hanzo, rubbing his thumb across the man’s bicep. He had first peeked a hint of blue at the other man’s wrist while they were drinking, and over the course of the evening his sleeves rolled up to reveal more and more of the most fantastic tattoo.

Dragons. Dragons and lightning and stormclouds. What the hell was it about rolled up sleeves anyways? McCree could feel the sweat on the back of his neck just thinking about it. He couldn’t wait to find out how far up his arm the design spread. Maybe get his mouth on it. He wondered what Hanzo’d think of his own ink. Tramp stamps weren’t quite as fancy as arm sleeves, but the man at his side had been full of infinite surprises thus far. Maybe he’d like it.

Hanzo’s hand snaked down into McCree’s rear pocket and gave his ass a brazen squeeze as the pair approached the elevators. McCree’s face hurt from smiling. Maybe he’d like it indeed.

Feeling emboldened, no sooner had they stepped in the elevator, than McCree cornered Hanzo with a lecherous grin. He braced his arms on the railing behind Hanzo.

“Hey friend,” McCree drawled. “Ya might wanna watch those hands. Could give a man all sorts of ideas.” He leaned down slowly, giving Hanzo time to pull away.

McCree was hardly more than halfway to Hanzo’s lips when the shorter man surged up, gripping the collar of his shirt to press their mouths together.

There was no quick press of lips. No warming up to each other. Just an instant tempest of hot open-mouthed passion. A harsh mess of beards tangling together.

McCree’s mind whirled. He tilted his head up for air, to strive for some attempt at rational thought. Jesus fuck, they hadn’t even pressed the elevator button for his floor yet. The fog in his head was only partially due to the whiskey.

No sooner had McCree gasped a lungful of air, than Hanzo had moved down to his neck. Wicked hands reached behind to press against his shoulder blades. Sinister teeth left marks down the side of his throat, and he realized he’d lost his hat at some point.

Button. He needed to press the button. Why did he need to press the button? He could just press up against Hanzo instead. He more or less already was. He ground down. Ha. Yes. That was nice. The railing no doubt pressed uncomfortably against Hanzo’s back. Oh. Hanzo on his back, arms stretched above him. McCree groaned at the thought. Yes. They could do that. That could actually happen. You needed a bed for that. McCree managed enough cognizant thought to turn away for a moment and hit a button. He was pretty sure he pressed the right one.

Hanzo smiled up at McCree, a spark of mischief in his eyes. He licked his lips and spoke. “You said I should take care not to give you ideas cowboy. May I assume your mind has been thoroughly cleared?”

McCree found himself unfairly hard. “Good God the words that come out of your mouth sweetheart.” He groaned, and pressed his their foreheads together. “I write words for a living and you just drop that kind’a declaration like it’s nothing.” Their lips met once again as McCree worked to untuck Hanzo’s shirt.  

The elevator dinged, and the door opened to an empty hallway. Hot damn they were lucky they hadn’t run into anyone yet.

Hanzo pushed McCree backwards out the doors, but had to rely on McCree on which way to go.

It took a few minutes longer than it should have for them to get the door open. Hanzo’s insistence on staying in front of McCree, his ass and back grinding against his front, certainly didn’t help.

With the door finally open they pulled inside. McCree stood there for a moment, sliding his palms up to cup Hanzo’s face. He stared at dark eyes, and swollen lips in wonderment. Hanzo’s panting breath still smelled faintly of whiskey. It was like a dream.

McCree gave a lopsided smile, “I can hardly believe I caught your eye.” He tucked a loose strand of hair behind his ear. “You sure this isn’t fake?”

The other man stiffened. Hanzo leaned back as his eyes scoped out the still dark hotel room.  

McCree mentally backtracked to try and catch the problem. “Hanzo?  Hey now, what’s wrong sweetheart?” McCree gripped the man’s shoulders and tried to look him in the face.

Hanzo pulled his arms toward himself, trying to make himself smaller. “Jesse, I-” his mouth snapped shut.

McCree furrowed his brows. Something was off about that. “Not too many people call me Jesse,” he commented. “Didn’t think I even gave you my first name.”

Silence reigned for a scant handful of seconds as Hanzo’s expression grew more and more panicked. Hanzo opened his mouth, then covered it with both hands. He blinked once, twice, before he jerked away entirely, and ran for of the still open doorway.

McCree stood perplexed for a moment as he tried to sort his thoughts through the buzz in his head. What…? Where? Was it something he said? How did he know his name? Should he follow?  

Moving to stand in the doorway of his hotel room, McCree looked down the hall, not even knowing which way Hanzo had ran. The hall sat empty and quiet, like the man had never been there at all.  

Sluggishly, McCree turned back into the room. The lights were still off. Everything felt detached and cold. Doubt crept into his thoughts. Had he misread something? Had it really been too good to be true? He felt like they had really had a connection, even before leaving the bar.

McCree looked down at his hands. It already it felt like they were missing something.

He wished he’d gotten the man’s number. His last name. He wished he’d pulled that tie out of hair to run his fingers through. He wished he knew why the man ran away like that. He- … he wished Hanzo hadn’t left.

Turning over the darkened room, his gaze honed in on his trusty laptop, lying surrounded by his various notes and journals. He felt the draw now more than he had even when he first spotted that regal man sitting in the corner of the bar. One slow step at a time, he moved over to the desk, sat down, and began to write.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha, hope y'all don't hate me for this!  
> Because of how I want to write perspective changes, the chapter has to end here.  
> The next bit will actually be from Genji's POV. Look forward to it.


	3. Genji

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter dedicated to everyone in the "Genji Shimada is a little shit" tag.

*knock knock knock* … nothing.  

*KNOCK KNOCK … THUNKTHUNKTHUNKTHUNK*

Hanzo slammed open the door. “ _What_ do you want Genji,” he grumbled.

“Oh good! You’re home!” Genji smiled cheerily. Walking inside as though he had not been trying to break down his brother’s apartment door.

“Yes,” Hanzo rubbed the bridge of his nose and replied wearily. “I am home. Now _why_ are you here?”

“Can’t I miss my big brother? We don’t hang out anymore!”

“Genji, your idea of fun is-”  
  
“No!” Genji interrupted, crossing his arms. “It’s not that. You missed our last two Dinosaur Documentary Movie Nights! When was the last time you left the house? I’ve seen you maybe twice in the last six months!”

Hanzo merely sighed and moved to pick up things in his living room. Old empty mugs left on side tables, books lying in piles, an unfolded blanket draped halfway off of a chair. It was still much cleaner than the apartment Genji shared with his three roommates, but for Hanzo? It was chaos. It felt less like a home and more like somewhere you just… existed.

Something was going on. Genji had seen Hanzo through many ups and downs in their lives. His brother was the type to take every responsibility and suffer alone. If this had anything to do with-

“Hanzo,” Genji asked solemnly. “Is it... is the family causing you trouble again?”

“Is what? What!? No!” Hanzo appeared honestly confused. He paused in his ministrations. “No I haven’t heard word from them in years.” A small ‘thank God’ was added under his breath.

Silence fell once again. With a lack of something to say, Genji started to help Hanzo tidy up. He really couldn’t imagine what the problem could be. If it was because of work, he would have already been venting about it. If it was due to Genji himself, well, Hanzo had never been afraid to share his mind in that regard either. He paused a moment to look at the book currently in his hands.

The somewhat plain novel was well worn. Dark blue in color, gray clouds and stylistic yellow lightning framed the words, “Stranger in the Storm.” He turned it over to read the back cover.

 

> _“They say the air feels different before lightning strikes. That it feels heavier, more dangerous._ _  
> _ _  
> _ _Joel didn’t know what to expect that night on the ranch, he only knew the horses were restless, and the wind was fraught with trouble._
> 
> _When the strange ‘storm chaser’ from the east arrived on a quest for redemption, Joel finds himself wrapped up in the man’s journey… in more ways than one.”_

Genji stared hard at the book. He turned it back over to the front. It read, ‘Bestseller by J.J.Morricone.’ There was no long haired man or cheesy text, but he was quite sure this was a … romance novel.

‘Holy shit,’ Genji thought. He tucked it under his arm as he looked at the other books piled on the table. He could hardly believe this. They were _all_ romance novels.

This. Was. Amazing. Genji’s mind ran through the endless possibilities of ways he could use this to tease Hanzo for the next… forever really. The whole situation reminded him of the K-Dramas Hana liked to watch.

Which was when the idea popped into his head.

“Hanzo…” Genji called out with increasing volume. “Did you break up with someone?”

A clatter sounded from the kitchen as Hanzo whipped into the living room, his arms dripping with dishwater.

Genji was paging through the books, an ecstatic smile spread across his face. “Oh my God Hanzo. They’re westerns, _gay_ westerns. Did you have a boyfriend?! Were they a cowboy?! Did you have a cowboyfriend!?!?”

“OUT.” Hanzo was furiously wiping his soapy hands on the front of his shirt and pants. “LEAVE. NOW.” He pulled the books from Genji’s hands as he shoved him towards the door.

“Wha- come on!” Genji scoffed and leaned back, making it more difficult. “It’s not like I’m going to tell anyone!” he lied.

“No.” Hanzo pushed. “Just- just later. _Please_. Just go.”

With a final shove, Hanzo successfully manhandled Genji into the hallway, shutting and locking door behind him.

It was only then that Genji realized he still held the small blue book under his arm.

* * *

 

“I’m sorry I just cannot get over this.” Genji was laid back on the bean bag chair, holding ‘Stranger in the Storm,’ over his head.  

Hana sighed from behind her laptop on the couch, sitting with her back to an armrest.  They’d been having this conversation for almost two weeks.

“No, no!” Genji insisted. “Just listen to this.”

 

> _"'It’s here." Arashi stepped forward towards the door, sliding his left arm out of the kyudo-gi he had just repaired. Already the swirl of blue on his wrist began to creep up his arm, filling the cabin with an eerie glow._
> 
> _Joel reached to grab his other arm. “Don’t do this,” he said, desperation lined his voice. “You don’t have to go out there.” The storm crashed, the windows rattled in their frames._
> 
> _Arashi looked to the ground as his hands formed into fists, but he made no move to pull away. “I have to,” he said, his lament clear. “It has taken me ten years to hunt them here, to this place. If I do not go now I will never forgive myself.”_
> 
> _Slowly, Joel loosened his grip on the other man, sliding down to grasp his hand instead. “Will… will you come back?”_
> 
> _Arashi pulled his hands away to untie the golden ribbon in his hair. He folded it gently before pressing it into Joel hands. “For you?  Always.”’_

Genji paused for a moment of dramatic tension. “Hana it is GAY. It is _so_ gay. Seriously, how did he even find this?” He closed the book and looked it over as though it might reveal some hidden secret.

“The main protagonist is a _cowboy_ , which is great enough on it’s own, but his love interest is a Japanese man with a magic tattoo that summons spirit dragons! Spirit dragons! You couldn’t make this shit up!” He paused. “Well I mean obviously someone did. But spooky magics aside, you’d swear this thing was written for my brother.”

Hana remained silent, save for some quiet typing, and the occasional clicking of her mouse.

“Come on,” Genji whined. “Were you even listen-”  
  
“What does your brother look like again?” Hana asked.

“What does? Uh...”

“Super serious? Little ponytail? Dorky gray hair wings?” she added.

“Um, yes?” Genji replied. “How did you-?”

Hana turned her laptop to show a handful of candid-like pictures that had been posted on 4chan. They had been taken at odd angles, and most of them were blurry, but it looked like a couple of men sitting in a bar. One had a cowboy hat and the other was… his brother?  

Genji pulled the screen into his lap as he tried to understand exactly what he was looking at. Most of the comments were skeptical complaints, or a useless combination of keyboard smashing with phrases like, ‘IT'S ARASHI’ and ‘THE CANON IS REAL’. Most of the remaining posts just called OP gay.

Genji looked up from the computer. “So… yeah, that’s Hanzo. Who’s the other one?”  
  
Hana smiled like she’d just unlocked the secret ending on hard mode. “That’s J.J.Morricone.” She pointed to the book. “That’s the author.”

* * *

 

Genji once again found himself knocking on his brother’s apartment door.

“Hanzo!” He called. “I know you’re home! I saw the lights on!” … nothing. “I’ll climb in through the window!” he threatened. “You know I will!”

Hanzo opened the door halfway, but stood blocking the entryway. “Genji I live on the 7th floor,” he said dryly.  

“Ah good, let me in.” Genji held up the book. “We need to talk.”

“That’s where -!” Hanzo reached to grab it. Genji pulled it behind him. “You had it!?” he accused.

Genji wiggled the novel above his head with one hand while the other held back Hanzo. “Ah ah ah!  Not until you tell me everything.”

Hanzo looked from Genji to the book, then back at Genji again. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He stepped back from the door and sighed,  “I will make some tea.”

* * *

 

“What do you mean you just ran away!?” Genji could only stay quiet for so long. “Here I was preparing myself for mental scarring and you’re telling me you didn’t even sleep with the man?!”

“Genji I-” Hanzo fidgeted with mug in his hands.  

“You didn’t ride the cowboy?!”

“Shut up I panicked!” Hanzo snapped. He sighed before he continued, “Besides, it wouldn’t have been right. I had just met the man and Mc-” a breath, “Morricone deserves more than a one night stand with a drunk fan.” He glared at his tea. "A fan who he didn’t even realize he was a fan! Genji, I deceived him!”

“Hanzo, the only one you’re _deceiving_ " he threw up air quotes, "is yourself.” Genji sat up, still holding the novel. “Did we even read the same book?”

“You actually-?”

“Aside from the fact Arashi is so totally you,” ‘to a somewhat scary degree,’ Genji thought. “There’s whole matter of the acknowledgments.”

Hanzo hid his face in his hands as Genji turned to read it.

 

> _“Inspired by most amazing stranger I’ve ever met._
> 
> _You passed through my life like a desert storm, rare and beautiful. As heavenly and hard to hold as rainwater._
> 
> _If you’re reading this, know that I’ll never forget you. The time we spent together was more than just a work of fiction.”_

Genji closed the book and finally threw it at Hanzo. His brother caught it with a glare, no doubt for treating it so carelessly.

Hanzo ran his fingers over the cover, “It was just one night. He’s practically famous now, I’m sure he’s forgotten about me.”

Genji threw his head back, exasperated, “Were you listening at all?! Hanzo, the man didn’t write you a love letter, he wrote you a goddamn love _novel_! With sex scenes! And stupid puns! And somehow managed to make it a best seller!”

Genji’s phone buzzed. He glanced at the message and tapped a few buttons irritably. “Hanzo,” he continued, still looking down. “That disgustingly sappy confession? That was for _you_. You realize that right?”

“He-” Hanzo began, looking off to the side. Genji re-adjusted his phone. “Mr. Morricone does not truly know me, could not possibly love me. I am not the fearless confident man from his story.” He gripped the book tightly in his hands. “I am flawed and cowardly and weak.  A fake.” A moment of silence passed. “It is the _idea_ of me he loves, not...  It is better to leave him with the memory of a stranger than to be disappointed by … reality.”

Genji sent the message to Hana.

The silence confused Hanzo, “Genji?” he asked.

Genji looked up with an unimpressed expression and took a picture.

“Wha- Genji!” Hanzo sputtered as his brother continued tapping on his phone. “What are you-” a flush of red rose to the tips of Hanzo’s ears.

“GENJI.” Hanzo was standing now. “WHAT DID YOU DO!?”

Genji just smiled and took another picture.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trying to write a romance novel inside a fanfiction is ridiculous. Thankfully Genji made it all kinds of fun.  
> (I've wanted to use that tag for ages.)
> 
> Next up we'll see what McCree's been up to.


	4. McCree

It was late afternoon by the time McCree shuffled to his computer to check his email. He’d long since swapped out his morning coffee for an early beer.

There was just something about Mondays that made time drag on. He knew he more or less made his own schedule, but he always liked to think that he had the weekends off. So what if he gave himself a three-day-weekend every now and then? He stretched and logged in with a yawn. Maybe he should have kept that coffee after all.

McCree blinked when he glanced at the message count. His… 302 new messages. Wait what-? No, that’s what it said. While he would occasionally get a message or two from a fan, most of his emails were junk mail, or something from his editor, Sombra. This... couldn’t be right.

He scrolled down, scanning over subject lines such as, “wtf he’s real!?!,” or “ARAAAAASHIIIIII,” although there was a, “your publicity suks,” mixed in. There was also one from his editor that simply read, “If you’re gonna freak out, call me first so I can enjoy it.” Still confused, McCree clicked one of the mystery messages.

He immediately felt as though all the air had left the room.

Hanzo. It was Hanzo. I mean, it wasn’t _from_ him, the email was from some fan who found the images on some crazy post on Reddit and _had_ to share, but the picture itself? It… it was him. In it, Hanzo was wrapped up in a oversized blue hoodie, one knee pulled up on his chair, staring at the camera with an odd expression. In the next he was standing, red in the face, holding… his book? _Holy shit it was_ _his book!_ There was a third picture but it really only showed a blurred mess of hands and … he wasn’t sure, something green.

Wait. Wait, were all the emails?...

They were.

McCree clicked through the messages as fast as he could. Most of them were of the same three pictures he just saw, or the blurry photo’s from the night they’d met at the bar, but there were others. Hanzo working hard at a desk. Hanzo asleep in a chair. Hanzo in swim trunks at the beach and _goddamn._ That tattoo ran not just around his arm, but up and over his goddamn chest... GODDAMN.

Shit, some of this seemed personal. He knew some of his more, er _intense_ , fans had taken it upon themselves to quest for, “Morricone’s Mysterious Stranger,” but to this degree? And how had they found so much so quickly?

Many of the emails has sources referenced or linked, and he decided to click one. It took him to a tumblr blog. The heading simply read “My Brother is an Idiot.” Hanzo had mentioned a younger brother at some point during the night, but aside from the blog title, there was no clear explanation in sight. He scrolled past picture after picture of Hanzo, many of which he’d just seen in the emails. It was all rather overwhelming. McCree clicked the “archive” tab. Three days. The blog had only been active for three days and it already- was that a video? McCree selected the blog’s first post and clicked “play.”

The video recording started mid conversation. McCree didn’t recognize the accented voice. “ _-that was for you_ ,” it said. The voice continued speaking as the camera angle shifted up and... oh. The voice was talking to Hanzo. Hanzo was looking off to the side, clearly not realizing the camera was recording.

“ _He-_ ” Hanzo began and oh DAMN. It was like a shock to the chest. That voice. He’d missed that voice. Feared he’d forgotten it. Feared that time had worn the memory down to little more than a dream. Even through the somewhat low quality video, he could hear that rich somber tone, could remember that smooth controlled laugh, feel those rough heated lips… ah, shit fuck the video ended and he hadn’t caught a damn thing he’d said.

Determined to pay attention this time, McCree clicked “replay.”

* * *

 

McCree paced the room in front of his desk. Slightly hunched, he tapped the tips of his fingers against his chin. Where did he go from here? Responding to the fan emails wouldn’t get him anywhere, there were too many, and they didn’t have any more answers than he did. The “Idiot Brother” blog held promise, but it had a closed ask box, and gave no contact information. He considered actually calling his editor to see what she knew, but he didn’t want to give her the satisfaction of quite possibly freaking out.

When they’d met, McCree had wondered if Hanzo was secretly a fan when he called him, “Jesse,” though he had his doubts when there was no response after the release of, “Stranger in the Storm.” McCree had always made his contact information accessible enough for those looking for it, even before his popularity increased. The whole “Morricone” pen name was mostly due to recommendations from others, in case the whole romance author thing didn’t pan out. With the fact he had heard absolutely nothing from Hanzo, the only explanation that remained was that the man was simply not interested in him. McCree could only assume rejection. He had all but resigned himself to pining for the rest of his dreary days.

And yet... the video made it seem the other way around. As if McCree was the one that didn’t care. Did Hanzo really believe that McCree thought of him as some superficial creature? Because of his book? He had taken care to write Arashi to be as relateable and as real a character as possible. He had worked to give him motivation for his actions, even with his character flaws. Writing Arashi had been just as astonishing as the time he had spent with Hanzo himself. Half of the time he didn’t know what the character was going to do until he did it; the story getting away from him in the best and worst of ways.

If anything, Joel was the one lacking in the personality department. As much as anything, Joel was just along for the ride. All _he_ had to offer was his love. McCree had always hoped that would be enough.

Shit. McCree needed to get his shit together. He needed to sit down, sort out his feelings, and get them out in a wholesome positive manner. McCree looked back to the computer. Intentional or not, Hanzo had shared his feelings in a video. Maybe he could do the same. McCree sat back down.

McCree brought up a simple recording software and hit the record button… he stopped it as he realized he had no idea what to say. But maybe… maybe that was okay. He started the recording again.

“Uh, hey darlin’!” he started nervously. The pet name might have been presumptuous, but Hanzo’s name hadn’t been mentioned in the video, and most of the posts he’d seen simply called him “Morricone’s Crush,” or “irl Arashi.”

“So uh,” he continued. “I couldn’t help but notice some of your pictures floating around online.” McCree fought a flinch. Smooth, real smooth. “Ha,” he forced a laugh, scratching the back of his head. “Probably didn’t want all those out there.”

An idea crossed McCree’s mind. “Tell you what!” he brightened. “Let me tell you some embarrassing facts about me! You know, level the playing field.” He took a moment to consider.

“Let’s see uhh… I’m damn terrified of those horse head masks. Used to be scared of horses as a kid, ironic I know.” He raised his hands in defense, “Them suckers were just so big! I ain’t scared of them no more, but those masks?” His face scrunched up.

“What else? Oh,” he laughed dryly. “I once an entire bag of sugar free gummy bears in one sitting and I,” McCree rubbed a hand down his face. “Just... don’t eat an entire bag of sugar free gummy bears all at once… trust me.”

McCree looked off to the side and chuckled. “Then of course there’s my most embarrassing moment to date.” He turned to look straight at the camera. “I once fell for someone so quickly, so completely, that in less than 24 hours I was inspired to write them an entire novel to try and express how I felt.”

McCree shook his head and took off his hat. He gripped it to his chest restlessly. “Look, I know we knew each other less than a day. I know all of this is goddamn crazy. Maybe you don’t even want to hear from me.”

He shifted in place, feeling more apprehensive by the minute. “I can’t promise we’d be perfect for each other. I can’t promise it’d all work out.” McCree put his hat back on and gathered his resolve. “But I _can_ promise I’d be there every step of the way.”

He gave the camera a small smile, “If you’re hearing any of this, if you wanna try and work it out, just…” McCree felt a genuine smile bloom across his face, “You just give me a sign.”

McCree stopped and saved the video. His suspected his publishers would be less than pleased with him posting his response publicly, but he bet Sombra would help him out. He leaned back in his chair, feeling more hopeful than he had in months.

* * *

 

McCree hadn’t felt this dreadful since … had it really been a year ago? It had. It had been exactly a year since he had been woken up hungover on his hotel room desk, his pissed off editor telling him to get up and his ass in gear. A year since he had first met Hanzo. A year since he had last seen him. He wondered if that might have been his only chance.

It had taken some convincing to persuade McCree to attend Passion Con again this year. In the end, it was Sombra’s suggestion that maybe Hanzo would be there as a congoer that finally persuaded him to go. McCree knew it was a stretch. Hanzo had had his own reasons for being in the convention center last year, but even so, he had agreed to attend.

Three months had passed since he’d posted his response video. He’s really not sure what he’d expected. A romantic rendezvous at the con? A reconciliation of their affections? A happily ever after? His fans had  loved the video of course, and that was great and all, but from Hanzo? The one from whom it’d really matter? Nothing.

Shortly after he’d distributed his video the “My Brother is an Idiot” blog disappeared, apparently deleted, probably taken down by Hanzo himself. McCree felt a little bad for saving as many of the pictures as he did, but he wanted to have _something_ to hang onto. The whole thing felt like a fever dream. A bright flash of excitement and hope, then back to the day to day trials of eye strain and tendonitis.

Speaking of sore wrists, McCree’s autograph time slot was just about up. As nice as it was to be recognized and brought in as a major guest this year, the extra attention was getting to him. He tried to focus on the positives. The gifts from fans, being asked to guest-host the “Research in Writing” panel, getting to meet a couple of girls cosplaying as Arashi and Joel. It really was a good con. He just wished he didn’t feel like he was just going through the motions.

The line was nearing it's end, but something about about the last man in line caught his attention. He could have sworn he’d spotted the same man waiting near the end more than half an hour ago. Others had joined the line since then, he should have made it to the front by now. Yet even as he watched, the man allowed a young lady to go in front of him. As though he wanted to be last on purpose. Was he just being polite?

He had first noticed the stranger due to his jacket. It was an offensively bright green, like a radioactive lime. In addition, he was carrying a large flat package wrapped in cloth, about the size and shape of a window. Yet perhaps the most curious of all, despite not recognizing the man’s appearance, there was something strangely familiar his voice, or what little he could hear of it anyways.

McCree gave the best of his attention to all of his fans, but by the time the stranger made it to the front (as the last one in line), McCree was dying to know just what they were up to.

“So!” The man hefted the package onto the table and began to unwrap it. “Since my brother is an idiot and a coward, and doesn’t know to just talk to people, I’ve been sent to give this to you,” he explained in an almost sing-song voice.

McCree was fairly confused, but was soon distracted by the reveal of the… painting. An honest to god canvas painting.  

It was most definitely a scene from his book. The part where Arashi went out to face the storm, Joel watching him go, only for Arashi to turn and look back at the last moment. The painting was a perfect moment frozen in time. From Joel’s billowing red serape, to the haze of rain pelting Arashi in the distance. The darkening glow of the sun set and the clouds rolling in, gave the painting a breathtaking sense of finality. The fine texture of the brushstrokes adding it’s own sort of depth. McCree couldn’t look away.

“You know,” the man said, leaning on the side of the painting, “this is probably only the second original he’s actually liked.” He smiled mischievously, “The first being his tattoo of course.”

McCree’s gaze snapped to the man’s face as realization struck. It… couldn't’ be... He tried to swallow past the sudden dryness in his throat.

“W-who did you say you were?” He spoke shakily. What did Hanzo say his brother's name was? Gen- something?

The man merely smiled, “He’s in the lobby you know. I’d hurry if I were you. He’s probably been recognized by now.”

McCree nearly knocked his chair over standing up. He shuffled around to the other side of the table before turning around to point a finger at his assigned staff member. “That!” he swung his arm to point at the painting. “That goddamn masterpiece! You get that to my room okay? No tomfoolery!”

The staff member sputtered slightly, seeming at a loss for words. Hanzo’s brother scoffed, and moved to take over, “both so dramatic.” He said while re-rewrapping the painting. McCree couldn't stand to wait any longer, turning tail for the lobby. As he left the table, he heard an amused, “Didn’t think he would like it, what a dumbass.”  
  
McCree couldn’t stop smiling as careened down the hallway, nearly running into unsuspecting congoers. He yelled apologies behind himself, but couldn’t bring himself to slow down. Hanzo was _here_ , he was waiting for _him_. This story wasn’t over yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go get 'em McCree!  
> One chapter left! Here's hoping out poor boys get their shit together.
> 
> Thanks again for all the positive feedback, you guys are awesome <3


	5. Hanzo

Hanzo waited in his seat at the tall table, doing his best to look impassive. Still, he found himself fidgeting with the cuff of his long sleeved button up. How long had it been? He resisted looking at his watch for what was probably the third time in the last five minutes. He looked at the guidebook Genji had left him instead.

It claimed “Morricone’s” autograph panel should be over by now. Had it gone over on time? McCree had certainly gained in popularity over the past year. Some of his work associates had even heard of him. Thankfully none of them seemed to have seen Genji’s posts, or if they had, they did not comment on them.

He had been _furious_ with his brother when he had realized the extent of his actions. A handful of embarrassing photos was one thing, but Genji had managed to broadcast practically half of his life overnight! Thankfully, his real name had not been given away, and then there was of course the matter of McCree’s heartfelt response...

He had been waiting for over an hour now. An hour since he had passed the painting to his brother. An hour spent squirming like a nervous child. An hour glaring at anyone who tried to approach him for pictures or conversation or some other inane purpose. From what he could overhear, he was quite sure some of them took pictures anyways. He sighed, he should almost be used to the unpleasant attention by this point.

At least Genji had been cooperative so far. Hanzo had been unsure if his brother would be amenable to passing along Hanzo’s contact information along with his… gift. Yet aside from a melodramatic eye roll, Genji had been more than willing to make the delivery, and had promised to meet him in the lobby to share McCree’s response. Hanzo would have gone himself, but he was concerned his presence might start a scene.

Perhaps on some level he secretly feared rejection. He tried not to doubt himself, but still found his mind drawn to all of the mistakes he had made with the painting and… everything else. He had been satisfied with the piece at the time, but thinking back on it… the blues he used were definitely too dark, the distant rain just made everything look blurry, the- Hanzo shook himself from such thoughts. What was done was done. All he could do now was wait.

Hanzo sincerely hoped McCree would at least be willing to meet with him.

Hanzo had again looked to his watch when the volume of the small crowd in the lobby increased. There seemed to be some disturbance from down the hall. Hanzo craned his head to see.

Standing near one of the side entrances, stretching his head over the crowd was... McCree? Wait... McCree!? Here!? He was _here_?! What was-?! Where was Genji!?

No sooner had Hanzo spotted the man, than McCree turned his head in Hanzo’s direction. The smile that split his face could have froze time.

“Hanzo!” He yelled.

Oh no. Why was he yelling?! Hanzo stood up. Oh GOD now he was running. Jesse motherfucking McCree was running through a crowd of romance obsessed congoers in his direction.

Hanzo swiftly abandoned his seat and dashed to meet him halfway. McCree opened his arms with that same dumb (beautiful) smile on his face.

Just as pair were about to collide, Hanzo grabbed McCree’s elbow. The taller man nearly falling over as Hanzo whipped them around to run down a different branching hallway. McCree did his best to keep up.

“Hanzo!” McCree panted. “I can’t believe it’s really you! You’re really here!”

Hanzo pulled them past a few more halls, the hum of the crowds falling behind them.

McCree was nearly wheezing “Sweetheart, please. These boots weren’t made for running.”

Hanzo slowed to a walk, looking behind them. It didn’t look like anyone had followed them. Or if they had, they had lost them. Hanzo finally brought them to a stop. After a moment he loosened the death-grip he had on McCree’s arm.

“You idiot!” Hanzo began. “You-!” Hanzo cut off as McCree pulled him into a tight hug.

“Ya’ll can be pissed at me all you like for whatever I did,” McCree relaxed his embrace. “I’m just happy yer here.”

Despite himself, Hanzo let out an amused breath. “This is hardly the place for this conversation.” He considered his options, “My brother and I have a room for the weekend. Perhaps we can talk there?” Hanzo trailed it off as a question.

“Yeah, I’d like that.” McCree’s breath had nearly returned to normal.

They continued down the hall at a more normal pace. Every few seconds McCree would turn to glance at him, as though he might disappear. After a nervous look, he reached to grab Hanzo’s hand.

Hanzo looked down at their clasped palms with some embarrassment, before looking up to McCree’s apprehensive smile. The man shrugged. Hanzo resisted rolling his eyes. “I’m not going to run away,” he sighed.

“You sure?” McCree’s expression was quickly approaching ‘smug.’ “You looked ‘bout 30 seconds from bolting when I saw you in that lobby,” he teased.

“That is hardly fair,” Hanzo scoffed. “ _You_ try to keep your cool with a six-foot cowboy charging in your direction.” They stopped to wait in front of the elevators. “Besides,” he added, “I had not expected our reunion to be so public.”

“Oh is that why we ran?” McCree questioned. “Yer brother told me to hurry if I didn’t want ya ta leave.”

This time Hanzo did roll his eyes. “Of course he did,” he muttered. The elevator arrived and they stepped inside. Hanzo hit the button for the 14th floor.

There was a brief moment as McCree’s smile faltered. With a short glance at Hanzo, he released their hands, and slammed both of his over the elevator controls; sliding down all of the buttons.

Startled, Hanzo stared at him exasperatedly. “You-” he cut himself off. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. He tried again, “Why... did you do that?” he asked slowly.

The elevator door opened to the 5th floor, paused, and then closed before continuing to the next one. This was going to be a long ride.

McCree had the nerve to look sheepish. “Well I,” he rubbed the back of his head. “Last time we were in an elevator we uh well…” Hanzo stared incredulously.  “And you ran after that so I- I donno,” he trailed off.

Hanzo found himself unable to be irritated with the poor man. Cautiously, he took hold of one of McCree’s hands, then the other. He held them in front of him, rubbing his thumb against the other man’s fingers. “Last time we were in an elevator,” he began. “I was full of more whiskey than is recommended by even the General Surgeon’s less savory uncle.” He looked up at McCree with a small hopeful smile, “This time I hope to be more in control of my facilities.”

McCree’s expression warmed from apprehensive, to eager. He began to lean forward slightly before Hanzo caught on, and put a hand to McCree’s mouth.

Hanzo looked off to the side, feeling somewhat warm. “Not in public,” he huffed.

“Alright that’s fair“ McCree conceded. The doors continued to quietly open and close. “Sooooo,” he drawled. “That not a no to private kisses then?” Hanzo gave him a dry look. Or at least what he thought was a dry look. The expression McCree gave him was no less enthusiastic.

“Heh, you know,” McCree’s eyes crinkled as he smiled. “You might be the only person in the world that could manage to look simultaneously happy and pissed, while still being goddamn adorable.”

Hanzo dropped their hands and shoved at McCree’s chest to cross his arms in a not-adorable-at-all manner.

It was largely ineffective.

Time passed, and finally the elevator doors opened to the 14th floor. McCree held out an arm to stop them from closing. He crooked his other elbow and offered it to Hanzo. “Shall we?” his smile was no less radiant than when he had first seen it in the lobby.

Ridiculous. Presumptuous. This man was nothing short of absurd. Hanzo took the offered arm anyways.

Together they made their way to the proper room, unlocked the door, and stepped inside. Hanzo and Genji had reserved an average sized suite with two double beds. While the brothers had shared beds before, both agreed that Genji’s sleep-kicking and Hanzo’s blanket-stealing were not a combination that either enjoyed.

Upon entering however, Hanzo noticed that his brother’s half of the room was empty. When would he have-? Wait, no, that wasn’t quite right. One of Genji’s duffle bags was on Hanzo’s side.

Hanzo walked over but hesitated to look inside. On top of the bag laid a note which simply read, “Yee-haw.” A glance to McCree found the man still near the door, looking at his phone. Hanzo knelt on the edge of the bed, unzipped the top, and risked a peek.

Condoms. Condoms and lube and more condoms and… were those handcuffs?

“Now that’s got me worried.” McCree commented.

Hanzo quickly flipped the top closed and shoved the bag away, turning around in an embarrassed panic. He opened his mouth to give an explanation he didn’t have, when he realized McCree was still staring at his phone, not even looking in his direction.

McCree walked over to Hanzo to show him the picture he’d just received. In it were two people. His brother and a purpled haired girl with some impressively long nails. It looked as though they were in another hotel room. The girl was close to the camera, her hand curled in a smug wave.  Genji sat cross legged on a bed in the back, throwing a peace sign, with an expression that could only be described as “shit-eating.” As he stared another message popped up. It simply read, “You’re welcome.”

McCree pulled the phone back towards him. “Apparently, yer brother and my editor are in my room and are ‘ _new besties_ ,’” he threw up air quotes with one hand. “And I’m ‘ _not allowed to interrupt their best bud sleepover_.’” McCree looked up at Hanzo with a somewhat tense expression.

“Subtle,” Hanzo deadpanned.

McCree gave Hanzo a tired grin, “Yer brother’s a bit of a devil ain’t he?”

Hanzo sat down on the edge of the bed, and slid his hands down his face. “You have no idea,” he groaned.

McCree tucked the phone away and moved to sit besides Hanzo. “Sunshine,” he began. “I’m not gonna force myself on your company. Be it the next five minutes, or the rest of the night, I’m happy just to spend time with you.” He wrapped an arm around Hanzo’s shoulders. Hanzo allowed it.

“We can do whatever you want,” McCree continued gesturing with his other arm. “We can stay up here and chat, go out on the town somewhere,” McCree glanced behind them on the bed.  “We could explore whatever’s in that bag that made yer face light up brighter than a cherry tomato.” His smile took on crude gleam.

Hanzo’s face was on _fire_ . Damn his brother. _Damn him_. “One of these days I’m going to kill him,” he muttered.

“Aww come on now,” McCree leaned his head on the side of Hanzo’s, pecking a small kiss on his hair. “I only met the little shit for a few minutes, but I’m awfully grateful to him for pushing ya in my direction.”

“Ha,” Hanzo laughed shortly. “A few minutes is fine, try spending even a day with him.” Hanzo’s expression brightened as he remembered a previous conversation. “You know,” he began with a mischievous smile, “He tried to convince me to wear a horse-head mask as a disguise while I waited in the lobby.”

McCree’s smile evaporated. “Oh-good-Lord-please-no,” his arm dropped as he gazed into a middle distance. “There were three of those fucking things in that goddamn line. Even had to sign one of them... I damn near flipped the table.” He shuttered.

Hanzo hummed in amusement as they quietly sat next to each other. Both seeming lost in their own heads. After a few moments Hanzo glanced around the room and fidgeted slightly with the cuff of his sleeve. Gathering his courage, he took a deep breath and spoke up, “I don’t know about you, but I would not mind staying here and seeing where the night takes us.” He turned to face McCree, “What do you think?”

McCree came back to himself and his smile quirked, as though he had just seen the most amazing thing. “You want to know what I think?” he asked. ”Honestly?”

Hanzo paused to consider the extent of possibilities. To consider what the man in front of him meant to him. Hanzo considered the way he had felt reading McCree’s novels, the way he had felt putting that brush to canvas, the way he felt sitting next to the man himself. Hanzo found himself rather terrified at the extent of his feelings. Their time apart had not diminished his attraction to the man; memory living up to it’s expectations, and every moment spent with McCree pulled him deeper and deeper towards an emotion he dare not put into words.

And yet.

Hanzo realized he actually trusted him. Hanzo trusted the man who could paint with words. Trusted the man who ran down hallways in cowboy boots. Trusted the man who trusted _him_.

Hanzo didn’t know how McCree felt, didn’t know what the man was going to say, but for once he didn’t want to run away from the unknown. He gave a silent nod.

McCree sighed warmly. He looked down and pulled one of Hanzo’s hands into his. He took a deep breath and began his words slowly, “Despite the methods, I feel like we’ve gotten to know each other pretty well.” McCree turned Hanzo’s hand over and ran this thumb over the blue snout peeking out from under his sleeve. “But right now? Actually having you in front of me?” He turned his face toward Hanzo’s. “I realize there’s so much more about you I _don’t_ know, so much I want to learn. I want to know how it feels to run my hands through your hair. I want to map those stormclouds on your arm. I want to memorize that starshine in your eyes.” McCree slid the palm not holding Hanzo’s hand behind his neck. McCree tilted his face up, the two nearly breathing the same air. “I want for you to be mine, and me to be your’s. I want to hold on to you and never let go.”

Hanzo inhaled sharply, his heart soaring. Whatever Hanzo might have been expecting, it wasn’t that. To think that McCree held such feeling for him, and to put it in so many words. There was no way he could possibly compete with such a confession... so he didn’t.

Hanzo surged up to meet McCree’s lips, knocking off his hat in the movement. With a soft surprised noise, the man responded by pulling Hanzo into his lap. McCree’s growing interest was made obvious by the press of their hips. Hanzo gasped, shocked at McCree’s noticeable readiness. McCree couldn’t be that much younger than him, had he been holding himself back since the elevator? Or was it true what they said about everything being bigger in America?

McCree slid his hands along Hanzo’s sides, untucking his shirt. Hanzo’s fingers flew as he worked to unbutton McCree’s. Their arms getting in each other's way as much as anything. It seemed neither one was willing to break apart for more than a breath or two.

No sooner had Hanzo fully unbuttoned McCree’s shirt, than McCree lost patience and simply pulled Hanzo’s shirt up and over his head, setting Hanzo’s ponytail off kilter in the process.

“Oh yes,” McCree groaned and dropped the shirt, immediately putting his mouth on the junction between Hanzo’s clavicle and the upper edge of his tattoo. He slid his hands up to fully undo Hanzo's hair tie. Cradling the back of his skull as Hanzo’s hair flowed through McCree’s fingers.

Hanzo felt drunk on the feeling. He leaned his head back, giving McCree full access, beginning to grind down slowly.

It occurred to Hanzo that McCree was mouthing sweet endearments into his skin. His teeth no doubt leaving marks. Hanzo felt his pulse quicken at the thought.

Hanzo pressed his fingertips in the meat of McCree’s back, and found his eyes were drawn to the still half open duffle bag shoved against the pillows. The unfortunate phrase, “ride the cowboy,” passed through his mind. Perhaps they would be using the contents after all.

* * *

 

Several hours, an embarrassing amount of lube, and half a shower later, Hanzo found himself tucked into McCree’s side, still naked, the larger man cuddling him unashamedly.

After making a mess of Hanzo’s bed, the pair simply curled up on what had previously been Genji’s side of the room. He deserved it.

Hanzo was sore all over. The beard burn leaving an oddly satisfying ache. Neither of them were as young as they used to be, and as McCree ran small circles over the stormclouds on Hanzo’s shoulder, he felt as though he could drift off at any moment

“You know,” Hanzo hummed. “I used to be rather self-conscious about my tattoo.”

“What?” McCree paused in confusion, before continuing his ministrations. “It’s beautiful! Why?”

Hanzo turned more on his side to look at McCree. “Tattoo’s are fairly common here, but in Japan they are less… acceptable. They tend strongly to be tied to unsavory practices.” Hanzo withdrew into himself as memories darkened his thoughts.

“Your brother, Genji? It’s Genji right? I really ought to remember his name,” he shook his head. “Anyways, he said yer tattoo was probably the first piece of your art you actually liked.”

Hanzo was surprised at the truth of the assumption. “He’s not wrong I suppose,” he eventually said. Hanzo raised his arm to stare at the storm of twisting scales in the dim light of the room. “The original design was less ornate. After moving here I considered having it removed, but even then I could not bring myself to do it. Instead I had the blues intensified, had the clouds and lightning added.” He let his arm fall back to his chest. “Genji has a dragon as well. Green, with spirals of wind. On his leg,” he added. “The idea of losing them didn’t seem right. But adding to them? Changing them? It seemed more appropriate somehow,” Hanzo finished.

McCree shifted himself to better hold the smaller man. “A person’s past ain’t always pretty,” he admitted. “But your past is what makes you into the person you are today.” McCree tugged him closer. “I ain’t one to judge, and to be honest? I don’t think I’d have you any other way.”

The lingering silence was comforting. Hanzo couldn’t think of another time he’d felt so safe. He was nearly asleep when McCree quietly spoke up.

“Hey Hanzo?”

Hanzo hummed in acknowledgment.

“You… gonna be here when I wake up?”

Hanzo rolled onto his stomach, resting his chin on McCree’s chest. “McCree, this is my room.” He smiled lazily. “Why would I leave?”

“Aww you know what I mean. I just- If you-” McCree hesitated.

Hanzo blinked to focus himself more awake. “Jesse McCree,” he said seriously. Hanzo pushed himself up to lean over McCree, making sure to hold his attention. “You have been nothing but good to me. Even when I did not deserve it. I was a fool to leave you once. It is not a mistake I will make a second time.”

McCree stared up at Hanzo in wonder, a teasing smile growing on his face. “Did… did you just quote my own book at me?”

Hanzo flushed as realized he had. “No,” he said, expression blank. He held out for a handful of seconds before he groaned and attempted to hide his undoubtedly red face in McCree’s chest.

McCree wrapped his arms around Hanzo and laughed. “Nope!” he flipped them over, practically smothering Hanzo in the process. “No take backs! I get to keep you forever now!”

Hanzo squirmed and protested halfheartedly. Truly, there was no place he’d rather be.

* * *

 

> _"Jesse Morricone's novels have always been droll and predictable. His readers settling for would-be designer timepieces, ham-handed dialogue, and utterly consistent plot progression._
> 
> _'Stranger in the Storm' at least, throws this reliable constancy into the trash, but only by virtue of somehow managing to set the bar of quality and basic pacing so low as to put it through the floor. Nothing previous has been such a blatant cash-grab as this trite bit of sous-merde. Box-wine holds up as well as his ridiculous 'real-life inspiration' tale. Likewise, anyone who falls for such slop deserves to be fooled out of their money and have their tongues blinded to quality for the rest of their tasteless existence._
> 
> _In regards to the ‘story’ itself, the paper cut-out of a protagonist, and the racist caricature he falls entirely in love with, could have a single Lautrec piece summarize their entire courtship. Any ‘conflict’ is hardly worth mentioning._
> 
> _If this is the state of homoerotic fiction in the modern era, Jean Genet is truly rolling in his grave. Honestly, it's not a real romance unless someone is getting slapped."_

Hanzo fumed, as Ennuidomaker’s review continued. He wanted to pry the keys off of his laptop in outrage. He had been previously fond of this user, he had found their reviews to be scathingly precise. In this instance however, they couldn’t have been more _wrong_.

Entering the apartment, McCree found Hanzo curled in his armchair in the living room, hunched over his laptop, fingers flying, an expression of murder on his face. With a soft chuckle, McCree used his hip to shove the large box he was holding onto a nearby table.

“Ya feeding the trolls again?” he asked.

“No,” he did not bother to look up.

McCree found it incredibly endearing. Without saying a word, he simply leaned on the box, his chin resting on top of his crossed arms, and waited. Not more than 30 seconds passed before Hanzo spoke.

“For one thing!” he began. “You obviously put time and research into the historical accuracy of the setting!” Hanzo exclaimed. “Anyone else would have thrown Arashi into a yukata or ugh, a kimono.” Hanzo sat up straighter and glared down at the screen. “People have no understanding or appreciation for traditional archery attire.”

“Well ya’aint gonna be able to shoot a bow an’ arrow with them sleeves that’s for sure,” McCree smiled. “Can’t tell you how pleased I was when I saw you wearing one of them kyudo-gis in one of Genji’s pictures.”

“That too!” Hanzo interjected. “I don’t know what’s worse! People trying to stalk me, or playing off my existence as some publicity stunt!” The sneer that morphed on Hanzo’s face could have peeled paint. “That’s nothing to say of those that pretend to _be_ me.”

“Aww June Bug, I hate that they try to pick on ya, but you don’t gotta worry about me. Really, ya should see some of the messages I got when I first started out.” He gave a short laugh, “ _constructive criticism_ my ass.” McCree turned his head, looking more towards the window. The sky had begun to darken; it looked like might rain. “Besides,” he continued. “If you’re reading my stuff, ya probly ain’t looking for the most in-depth storytelling.”

Hanzo sat back in a moment of shocked offense, before springing into a counter argument that showered McCree with as many insults as compliments. Really, at this point McCree should know better than to try to depreciate himself in Hanzo’s presence.

The pair had been not-living-together for a handful of months now. While Hanzo’s apartment could still be considered his own, the small changes were beginning to add up. A spare toothbrush changed into his own shelf in the bathroom. A dresser drawer expanded to half the dresser and corner of the closet. That was nothing to say of various odds and ends that appeared as time went on. While Hanzo did enjoy the growing collection of succulents, the cow-print waste-basket and ‘lucky’ BAMF bathmat left something to be desired.

It was getting to the point where McCree would hide from his editor at his actual place more often than he did at Hanzo’s. Not that he ever succeeded either way, but Hanzo felt a certain warmth in knowing the neon imp would look for McCree at his place first.

Hanzo was several minutes into his rant when he finally noticed the box McCree had brought, or more specifically, when McCree held up one of what was in the box.

“You _didn’t_...” Hanzo set aside his laptop as McCree moved to hand him a copy of the new ‘Stranger in the Storm’ paperback, written by Jesse Morricone, cover illustration by... Hanzo Shimada.

Hanzo’s fingers lingered along the lettering of the title, flipping it over back and forth as he inspected it down the the finest detail. He took his time turning to various pages, easing open the spine. He held it up to his face and breathed in. Ah yes, nothing better than the smell of a new book. He flipped to the first page and began to read.

McCree examined a copy of his own. “So you like it then?”

Hanzo looked up for a brief moment. “You are horrible and insufferable and I love it,” he said without inflection.

McCree rubbed the back of his neck and did his best not to smile like an idiot. He failed. “I gotta say,” McCree said, moving to an adjacent chair, “I don’t rightly know where to go from here.”

Hanzo hummed a response, but remained engrossed in the novel. McCree rolled his eyes affectionately before continuing.

“I mean, I feel like I’ve peaked. I’ve tried and started a few things, but nothing can beat that book right there.”

Hanzo shrugged half a shoulder and turned a page, “So write more.”

“Write more? More what?”

“More of the storm,” Hanzo said, as though it was obvious. “Tell us more of Joel. What of the gang he left in the past? Or what happened to his mentor? Some fans claim Arashi’s brother never truly died, I for one would love to see an elaboration of that theory.” Hanzo turned to look outside just as rain began to pelt the windows. “A storm is a force of nature,” he continued loftily. “Lightning branches, who’s to say it can only strike once.”

Hanzo watched the oncoming storm for a few more moments before turning back to McCree. The man had dropped his copy of the book and stared at Hanzo with a look of sheer bewilderment.

McCree surged to his feet, grasping Hanzo’s face with both hands. He crashed their lips together with a sudden ferocity. Hanzo did not overly mind that he had lost his place.

McCree pulled back, his expression beaming. “Oh Sugar, honeybee, sunshine,” he shook his head, rubbing his thumb against Hanzo’s cheekbones. “How did I ever write without you?”

Hanzo smiled without answer. He set the book aside and pulled McCree in for another kiss. McCree could get to work later.

Outside lighting crashed, inside, a new storm was just beginning.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We did it guys! We made it! (I know Nanowrimo's goal is 100,000 not 10,000 but let me have this)
> 
> First, special thanks to [veLOLciraptor](http://archiveofourown.org/users/veLOLciraptor) for being my unofficial beta reader (listener?) and for helping provide us with snarky French asshole-ery. You're dumb and I hate you.
> 
> And of course, I want to thank all of you readers for taking the time to read and comment and kudos. This fandom is so awesome, and it really means a lot to me. Seriously, _I love you_ ♡
> 
>  
> 
> EDIT: So yep! This is gonna be a series! (holy fuck you guys are supportive)  
> Current side-stories ideas are listed in the series notes but feel free to comment more ideas if you got 'em! I can't make any promises to get to all of them (or where to start), but rest assured there will be more to come in the future!

**Author's Note:**

> ALSO [captianneednosleep drew us some fanart](https://twitter.com/SleeplessCap/status/1072105184439033856) and it makes me so happy you have no idea.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[PODFIC] Work of Fiction](https://archiveofourown.org/works/14520684) by [sksNinja](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sksNinja/pseuds/sksNinja)




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